


The Quiet Sense of Something Found

by fluffernutter8



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Movie, full on fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A morning moment with Logan, Veronica, and breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet Sense of Something Found

He had enjoyed ten years of being totally irresponsible for Veronica Mars’s stomach, and yet somehow here he was, back to the care and feeding of his local black hole.

“How is it that you can manage everything while I’m gone, but as soon as I’m back you lose your ability to boil water?” he asks, a sleepy smile pricking up his lips even as he keeps his eyes closed and presses his face into the pillow.   
  
"Your mistake is in confusing _can't_  and _don't want to_. Besides, after two weeks, don't you think I deserve a return to breakfast in bed?" She accompanies the last word with a prod to his back, and he makes the mistake of rolling over to glare at her. She is looking at him not in lust, not with that flirtatious glow in her eye that makes his chest feel perfectly fragile, just with a crinkled morning smile.  
  
He throws off the covers and goes to get a pair of boxers.  
  
His squad thinks it's weird, but Logan has a bizarrely well-equipped kitchen. Most of the wives, especially the ones who have blogs, love him for its good lighting and shiny, photogenic appliances and the way he lets them use it for whatever experiments they want when he's on cruise.   
  
But today isn't a morning for fancy, just for reusing the loaf of bread that has been growing stale on the table all night, abandoned after an aborted dinner. Honestly, they were lucky that the sauce-covered plates ended up soaking in the sink. Last night hadn't been a six month reunion, but fifteen days of maneuvers at sea had apparently been enough.  
  
He doesn't hear Veronica come in as he is taking the first piece of French toast out of the pan, but he feels her in the angles of his shoulders, a pleasant tingling replaced by warmth as she presses against his back.  
"What happened to breakfast in bed?" His voice is lower than he had intended, gravelly.  
  
She says, "You know me. I'm a rebel." She presses her lips against his spine, not kissing, just leaving them there as she takes a breath. He holds his, butterfly-gentle. He thinks he can feel the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin. The French toast remaining in the pan starts to smoke a little. Veronica pulls away after a minute, goes to sit in the breakfast nook, crooking one leg up in the bench and resting her chin on the knee. The sun falls behind her, glinting on blonde wood and light hair, and suddenly every promise that this house had made when he bought it is fulfilled.  
  
It's not that he and Carrie didn't have good times here. Most of their time together that first year was spent in his house, before she finished her tour and bought her place and went back to her Neptune ghosts. And it's not that he and Veronica don't fight here, the tiles echoing with their shouts and their stubbornness.  
  
But the fights they have now aren't fights of fear, and when they make up it isn't with desperate, clinging fingers. There's something settled about them now, permanent, a sense of long journeys and coming home to roost.  
  
He puts the food on the table. Veronica gets up, pulling out cutlery, absently checking that he has turned off the stove.  
  
"Syrup?" he asks from beside the fridge. "Or are you too much of a rebel for that?"  
  
"Even rebels appreciate the classics," she says, on tiptoe by the cabinets to reach down plates. There is an ache in his chest, contentment with a border of lust, as he watches the way his t-shirt, an old one from just after Officer Training, falls around her.  
  
She digs in quickly, syrup over everything and a piece already eaten before she looks up to tell him, "It's good." She sticks out her tongue to kitten-lick a drop of syrup from the side of her finger.  
  
He has a sense of intense presentness in that moment, a recognition of the warmth of the sun coming in the window, the cinnamon of the French toast and the richness of coffee around him, the neighbors' children splashing distantly in their pool next door. Veronica's toes tucked absently against his calf. "Yeah, it's good," he says, and it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Title the opposite of a quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Images inspired by a conversation between (I think?) elschaaf and edmyguidinglight. Written for the September fic prompts from vmficrecs.


End file.
